


DA029: I See You

by Rhion



Series: Seasonal Prompts [1]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-24
Updated: 2012-08-24
Packaged: 2017-11-12 19:21:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhion/pseuds/Rhion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The best way to deal with tight laces was to ignore those laces, until they got in the way and needed to be cut. People of Thedas' Secret Santa 2011</p>
            </blockquote>





	DA029: I See You

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Me no own, you no sue.
> 
> Secret Santa for Dragonreine. I haven’t played DA2, so I’m flyin’ by the seat o’mah pants and research. Yes, I know it ignores some timeline stuff, but hey, cut me some slack please, this has a goal. And oh look - character development! Considering how much I’ve avoided DA2 stuff like it has nasty cooties, I’m rather proud of this bit. I’m using Zevran references as a mirror and what I understand his supposed, properly fixed dialogue during the Isabela’s quip of ‘what about sex?’ as a plot device. Please forgives if I mangle it. Again I suppose this is AU-ish. Then again Fenris/Isabela is non-cannon but...grah, just ignore me, I haven’t had coffee yet.
> 
> As a side note: I’ve been in Isabela’s position. Best friends and snuggle buddies for months, liking each other seriously and having great attraction... But getting anything _done_ about all that UST was a nightmare. I think it wound up rather similarly. I’m told that the last month or so before I finally caved I was a complete crazy bitch. I don’t really remember, I just remember the fact that I was going to haul him off by his ponytail at any moment and damn the consequences. Men can be so disgustingly frustrating sometimes... Fenris just seems to be one of those. Not that’s bad, but it can be tiring.
> 
> Hopefully it works anyway, and Happy Holidays/Festivus/Christmas/Yule/Whatever! Oh heck, let’s just go with Dragon Age terminology: HAPPY FEAST DAY! There, much better.

Isabela picked her way over the shambles Fenris’ mansion was filled with. The disrepair didn’t bother her, she had seen worse, but it was a shame to let a fine place fall apart like this. However, she could understand. Once she had lost the _Siren_ that she always kept in perfect form and repair, she had let her rooms go to pieces herself. It reflected the mood she kept hidden, to have lost purpose and direction had kept her from caring about much of anything. But eventually that had changed as she settled into new roles, new habits, and that too was reflected in her own private spaces, cluttered but orderly. 

Fenris being who and what he was didn’t reflect anything - he growled it, shouted it, snarled it, displaying to one and all. 

“What are you doing here?” like cut crystal glass his Tevinter accent on Common struck. 

Summoning up a laugh as she waved two large jugs of liquor at the armoured apparition that appeared in the doorway, “The Hanged Man was too crowded, so I’m crashing your party. I brought booze at least.”

“Hmph, I have my own and do not require yours,” arms crossed.

“Good - more for me then,” Isabela breezed past him, having long since learned that the best way to deal with the tight-laced was to ignore those laces. Well, until they were in the way and needed to be cut free so that she could get access to what she wanted.

Having long since watched him finish off a third bottle of wine, Isabela thumped a booted leg as she stretched it out beside him. She hadn’t been lying when she said she brought booze, but the jug she was drinking from was really just watered wine. The other was the straight stuff, meant to be passed to her dour companion upon his ‘running out’ of his own drink if requested. Isabela knew he wasn’t likely to ‘talk it out’, ‘it’ being Varania, but on the off chance he did, she would need her wits to ensure she was present enough to at least listen in full or offer anything to help. Because that’s what friends did.

Faded green eyes slid over to follow the motion, working their way up fuzzily as she leaned back on a hand, the other carrying the jug of her watered wine as she took a deep drink. So far he hadn’t not only talked about ‘it’, but he hadn’t said anything other than the growled ‘greeting’ of hours ago. She almost rose a brow at the expression on his face but politely ignored it. One did not win so many games of Wicked Grace simply by cheating, which in itself was an art form, by showing cards before their turn.

“Why are you here?” 

“Funny question that, since I answered it before - Hanged Man was crowded,” the pirate shrugged. Not that she supposed she was much of a pirate anymore, or a captain, just a sellsword really that happened to have some friends and connections. “And sometimes it’s nice to drink quietly instead of having my arse and tits grabbed by drunkards who don’t like ‘no’ for an answer.”

A dark brow shot up over the chiseled features, “Hawke didn’t send you?”

“Hawke’s too busy to be sending anyone anywhere,” rolling her eyes at him. “Last I saw, Anders was stumbling around with Hawke doing some Ferelden dance called the Remigold. Never saw the appeal, not enough steps or difficulty for my tastes.”

“No, I don’t suppose it would,” he looked away, moving to take a swig of his empty bottle and frowned at it with distaste before throwing it against the wall, to watch it shatter, the glass joining the scattered remnants of the prior ones. 

Once more silence settled, Isabela waited quietly, watching him from the corner of an eye as he stared into the distance, thinking thoughts he wasn’t likely to disclose. Nor would she ask or press. Other times she would make flippant remarks, seek to distract, to do what it took to clear the air at least enough to breathe. Except that wasn’t what was needed and it wasn’t her business in this case to do such. There were enough times in her life when she had wished someone would just sit with her so she wasn’t alone, without any requirements or constraints put on her. 

XXX

After a week of showing up, the same story in hand - the Hanged Man was crowded - Fenris had quit growling, quit asking why she came. Isabela supposed she could be doing other things with her time, but they all just seemed to run together in the long run. Even excitement could become monotonous. 

“What have you there?” chiseled chin jerking towards the old travel pack on her shoulder.

“I’m tired of getting a crick in my neck from the floor, pretty as it is,” she demonstrated, moaning as her neck cracked, granting her some respite. “So, I brought something to sit on other than my derriere.” Winking playfully at him, “I’m sure there’s room for yours too, seeing as how skinny it is compared to mine.”

His lips twitched into a faint smirk as he grunted, “I’m not a work of art so it is allowed to be skinny.”

Masking her surprise at what could only be considered a flirty comment from him with laughter and a wink, she set the thick bedroll down, undoing the buckles and rolling it out with practiced motions, “Oh I don’t know, the fisting thing - that’s a work of art.”

“Hardly,” as he cautiously settled beside her. “Being able to put one’s hand into another’s body to feel the organs... There is nothing artistic about that.”

Leaning back in her now customary fashion, weight braced on an elbow, legs stretched out, boots towards the fire, “Fenris if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you knew nothing of the dips and swells and _touching_ of organs that can be such fun between two or more friendly, adventurous, consenting adults.”

Fenris’ brows drew down briefly as he puzzled out her meaning before releasing a soft curse. “ _Vashedan_. Is that all you think about?”

“You know, you should _really_ meet a friend of mine, everyone always said he and I were two peas in a pod...” a brief thought of that wayward assassin flitting through her mind. 

Then again, that always seemed to be what others thought either of them were thinking about. Not a thought in pretty heads but the next place to get some coin or get off. It definitely made life easier - for her at least, and Zevran too if she had felt like putting coin on such a bet - because that meant no one really saw them coming. It was very difficult to prepare a defense when no one knew someone was going to attack after all.

“Hmmph, then why isn’t he here?” 

“He’s off with his little Warden now that the Blight’s done, settled down or something, killed a Guildmaster, all that sort of thing,” she punctuated it with a little stabbing motion in Fenris’ shoulder. “I’d say it was disgusting if I didn’t understand him so well. Kind of hard to look in a mirror and not learn to see yourself, even if you’re not sure you like the reflection.”

Fenris looked around Danarius’ mansion, “There aren’t any mirrors here.”

“Broke them all, huh?” she knew what it really meant - he didn’t want to learn to see himself, no matter how hard he had searched for his past. 

XXX

Another week, the occasional conversation sprinkled here and there, deeper than the surface of what was actually said. There were some times when she almost just threw down and told him to have sex with her if only it would cheer him up. Isabela didn’t though, that wasn’t the sort of friend he could handle, even if it was the sort he needed. Then again, who was she to judge or say what someone needed? 

“Don’t you get cold?” finally asking a question that had been bothering her for years as she pointed to his bared soles. “Until Merrill and you, I’ve never seen elves go without shoes. Well - outside of a bedroom or brothel...or a beach...or a ship’s deck...or -”

Fenris snorted, “That sounds like plenty of elves you’ve seen barefoot.”

“Yes, but those are the same places us dirty shems go barefoot,” as she rolled her eyes at him. 

“You’re very clean, if not of mind,” he countered. 

Flopping on the bedroll that had been expanded to be an almost pallet, Isabela hoisted a leg to begin tugging at a boot. “Like I said - dirty shem.”

“Don’t say that,” his tone sharpened.

Curious, Isabela glanced at him through her lashes, at how his hands clenched at his knees and the tendons in his jaw tightened as he stared at the crackling fire. “What? Dirty shem? Last I checked that’s what some happy barefoot treehuggers called me, but hey, to each their own. I’ve always been of the mind that any insult can be owned and worn proudly. It’s all in the way you think about and look at it.” Ticking them off, “Whore, bitch, pirate, thief, dirty shem, oh my personal favourite - cunt, murderer, adulteress, slut - I can keep going you know. I’ve been called just about everything in the book. Well, except ‘knife-ear’, seeing as I don’t have the ears, but that could change any day with how drunk some people get. They might somehow not notice that I’m not very elven, a little too tall.”

“Don’t say those things,” it was snarled. 

Wresting her boot free she heaved herself up to look at him, bare leg crossed over booted, she waited a moment before carefully enunciating the word, “ _Slave_.” Watching him flinch, “I’ve been called that too you know. Fenris, it really comes down to how you decide to look at life. You can let the old scars rule you or you can take charge. Sure it takes time, but what do we have but time? Some more than others, some less. But we _all_ have time - it’s just what you make of it. Those words - they’re just words. They don’t hurt me, not anymore.” 

She waited for him to snarl, to explode, readied herself to weather it in whatever form it took. He held her gaze for a long time, inscrutable beneath the constant wearing anger that never truly abated, but she knew what it hid. Fear. They were all afraid. They were all alone. Each person a loosely bobbing little ship on stormy waters, sometimes finding temporary harbour and making a village of interconnected boats before breaking away and floating on, tossed to other places. Isabela had stopped being angry a long time ago, it was too exhausting. It kept her from finding any moments of peace or excitement. It stopped her from enjoying sunrises or the creaking of planks and the salt wind on her face, tangling her hair. 

“It burns too much for me to be cold,” stated carefully, brittle like that crystal goblet that was his voice would break if the wrong note were struck or it was dropped on the marble floors. A gauntlet was pried from a long forearm and hand, then the other, both reaching to help her with the other boot she still wore. “You aren’t those things.”

“Yes I am,” tempted to touch him, even if just a little. “At one time or another I’ve been those things. In the future, I’ll still be what I am. It’s just perspective, Fenris.”

“Why are you here, Isabela?” he hadn’t asked her that in days, and asking it again now, his hands barely touching the well muscled, dark skin of her leg as the leather came free, made her briefly wonder why she was. 

Searching for an answer that would fit somehow into what scope he could understand, “Because I can be.”

The touch was deliberate, the hand coming to rest on her knee, the scarred-tattooed lyrium raised up and textured against her, thrumming strangely, but it was neither hot nor cold. Then he was standing and disappeared into the bowels of the mansion. Rubbing her forehead, Isabela wondered what had just happened, guessed he didn’t know either and that had to be why he fled. Sighing she adjusted and rearranged the bedding enough to find some semblance of ‘comfortable’. People stuck to what was predictable, familiar - it was why people didn’t look too deeply at her motivations. They saw what they expected to see. When they didn’t, they became lost or angry or confused - which each lead back to the other. 

Coming alert from the doze she had been about to fall into, Isabela’s hand went for the knife tucked under her side, neatly hidden by her breast. 

“Scoot over,” it wasn’t sharp or demanding, and she didn’t dare peek at Fenris to see what he was doing.

“Brought up another bottle?” as she shifted over, withdrawing the sheathed dagger to set on her other side, just off the pile of double layered bedrolls. 

Weight settled over her bare legs then was tugged to her waist - a blanket. “No.”

He smelled of ozone and storms this close up, his sharp armour absent as he made himself comfortable behind her. Isabela instantly was taken back to sea-squalls, lightening and rain and tarred planks, waxed and sanded wood, hemp and stinging waves, making her close her eyes tightly with longing. The arm around her waist was slim, but she knew how deceptive that was, just like the calm skies before storms would blow up fast to overtake the unwary with their strength.

Gently she covered his hand with hers, not putting any pressure on his skin, uncertain if that would hurt him or not. “Andraste’s sodin’ knickers but you smell like home.”

Fenris’ arm tightened minutely was the only reply.

XXX

The next night the blanket was still there and Fenris had his gauntlets and pauldrons off, sitting legs akimbo, swigging from one of the many jugs she had left behind, a loaf of bread and a wheel of cheese before him on an unfolded cloth. Plunking down beside him, she kicked herself for not having thought of bringing food as her own stomach grumbled. Those faded green eyes slid over to her, measuring briefly before he tore the loaf in half, presenting it to her.

“I owe you one,” gratefully accepting it and carving off some of the cheese when he passed her the knife. 

When she was mid-bite, “Why are you here?”

Chewing thoughtfully, buying herself time, Isabela swallowed. “Because I can. Best answer I’ve got.”

“What’s the worst answer then?” head tilting to the side.

“There isn’t a ‘worst’ answer, like I said, life is subjective, so are answers,” Isabela gestured with a slice of cheese before biting into it. 

XXX

That was how it went for days until Hawke needed a hand, which was gladly lent. Isabela missed the quiet, it reminded her of her cabin in the middle of the night, when the ship sang with the sea. She would be lying to herself, something she tried not to do very often, if she said she didn’t miss the arm around her waist too. When they finally returned to Kirkwall she staggered off for a bath with the usual laugh and banter thrown this and that way, no one knew where she had been of late, but Varric, that sneaky dwarf, watched her with that knowing smirk. 

_This_ time she remembered to bring a decent spread. If Fenris was living off of bread, wine and cheese it was no wonder he could be such an ass. At least that’s what she said when pestering Hawke as she rummaged in the pantry. Hawke had stared at her tits not really paying attention, reminding Isabela of what could have been fun - apparently Anders and Hawke were on the outs. She passed by, a sack stuffed to the brim, and pinched Hawke’s cheek quickly and blew a kiss before sashaying away to High Town. None of that was her problem, Hawke had other friends to babysit and listen to grousing and moaning about apostates with weird spirits in their head telling them to do things. 

“‘Ho the house!” Isabela called out as she entered. 

“More insults for yourself today?” it was almost playful, but not really.

She would take what she could get. 

Swinging the pack down by the single bedroll, she had needed to take at least one with her for tromping around with Hawke, but that too was over her shoulders, “Nope. But look what I filched - goodies. Though really I wish that we could stop stirring up angry beasties and instead just find some _treasure_ \- just once!”

Full of good food and probably a bit too much wine, Isabela sighed, the odd little ritual of Fenris helping with her boots setting her at ease, just as the careless touches she sent his way seemed to do the same for him. But he stopped, staring, an angry frown on his face. Not that that was such a different thing, but there was a dragon-bone sharp quality to it this time.

“Why didn’t that mage heal this?” fingers framing the stitches she had laid into her own flesh.

Glancing at it, Isabela shrugged, “No mage to do it. Anders is having issues with his mangina, Merrill was playing the loon, and Bethany is busy with all that Warden-y stuff. Fend for yourself this time.” Flicking at one of the trails of white hair that almost fell in Fenris’ eyes, “I’ve had worse you know. If you’re ever lucky enough to see me without this here tunic on, I’ve got a super nice one right over my right kidney. Mostly though I suppose I’m vain enough that I got healers to do their little wiggle finger trick and get rid of the scars.”

His fingers wrapped around her leg partially, as far as they could go, thumbs on either side of the angry slash, “They can’t remove scars that are already there.” Fenris paused, “Unless they cut the surface away and heal over it again.”

Waving a hand, “Well how else would you expect them to do it?”

“The only thing that abomination is good for and he wasn’t there to do it,” growled as though he had half a mind to go hunt down Anders, never mind that the other two mages could be considered equally ‘responsible’. 

“Hey, relax Fenris. I cleaned it, I stitched it, it’s fine, it doesn’t affect my movement or fighting, and if I ever get to Antiva or Rivain again, I’ll get someone to do their neat trick while grinning and bearing it,” as she unhooked her corselet, sighing in relief even as the support for her breasts vanished. It was just nice to not be bound up tightly for a few minutes of the day and Fenris didn’t seem to mind as he at least never stared at her assets. Even if she was proud of them it was interesting to have someone look her in the eyes when looking at her at all, from time to time. “Turn that frown upside down and pass me that crock of whatever you’re drinking if you please.”

Isabela found herself yawning widely in short order and it was barely midnight. But she hadn’t slept well, keeping half an eye open for the last few days, the scent of the ocean no longer with her, and the broken hours for her turn at watch had taken their toll. Fenris growled when she tried to perk herself up and sit up straight, giving her shoulder a push to make her lie down. 

Not holding back a rich chuckle, “Oh are you going to nursemaid me now?”

“My house, my rules,” already rising to unbuckle his chestplates and thighguards, leaving him in black leggings and vest. “When tired, you sleep. When hungry, you eat.”

“When dirty, I bathe, yeah, yeah, I get it,” finding herself smiling at her friend. “So, when I’m horny do I get to -”

“Is that why you’re here?” 

Rolling to face Fenris instead of turning her back to him to curl around, “No.”

“Why are you here?”

“Because you need a friend,” finally using a different answer. So did she, frankly. “And because I can.”

He shook his head at her, “I can take care of myself.”

“Doesn’t mean that friends aren’t good when you can have them, when they’re available, just because you can fight on your own and take care of yourself. It doesn’t mean you have to reject having someone watch your back.” Rueful, “There’s plenty of times it would’ve been good to have someone watch my back rather than my backside.”

“Being statuesque has its drawbacks I suppose,” he agreed. 

“Has plenty of advantages too,” she pointed out.

It was a rare thing indeed to hear. It began low and then rolled out - a laugh. In fact, Isabela wasn’t sure she had ever heard it before. Not a real one at least. “Each and every one you know, I don’t doubt.”

She was left blinking rapidly at the sound of his laughter, actually at a loss. The instinct was to echo him, or to touch him, neither of which would likely be appropriate. It made Isabela want to curse or to figure out how to make him do that again. It was such an interesting sound.

Instead, “It’s my body and the only one I got, I better know how to work with it.”

XXX

There was a hand on her ass and a face in her breasts and soft hair in her face smelling of storm winds - all together a rather nice way to wake up. She always seemed to forget how short elves could be, especially ones with such large presences though. Scooting around enough to get her arms around Fenris, Isabela closed her eyes and rubbed her face in his hair, imagining for a moment that the swells would be there rocking _The Siren’s Call_. Whip-cord muscle reminded her of the cut and moulded lines of her sunk ship, amongst other things, but that was at the forefront of her mind. 

Fingers flexed against her buttocks and a faint prickle of stubble scraped against a partially bared mound, “I am not a children’s toy for you to cling to.”

Snorting, “Excuse me but aren’t you the one grabbing my ass and rubbing your face in my tits?”

“They’re soft,” as though that were all the explanation necessary. “And here.”

Not that he could see it, but Isabela’s face crinkled on a laugh, “Yeah, same to you.”

“Not particularly,” a sleepy shift brought more of him in contact with her, the hard line of his body amongst other things pressing against the soft curve of hers. 

“Doesn’t matter, you rub against me, you get rubbed against too,” and carried out her threat by rubbing her face into his trauma-bleached hair, making sure to inhale - loudly. “It’s only fair you know.”

Fenris grumbled into her cleavage, rolling her onto her back, “Not a toy.”

“Not a mattress,” Isabela punctuated with a buck of her hips. 

There was a morning fresh scowl on the face that rose up to growl, obviously still half asleep, “Stop that. I was trying to sleep.”

Pursing her lips at him, Isabela narrowed her eyes, “If you want to use me as a mattress then I’m going to use you as a stuffed toy. Fair trade. I get something, you get something.”

His head dropped back down to her chest, hips settling between hers as he heaved a rather grouchy sigh, “If you must.”

XXX

Waking up again later, but she wasn’t sure how much later - the sun wasn’t pouring through broken windows so it couldn’t be all _that_ long ago - Isabela almost worked up a growl of her own. It had been far too long since that quickie and a good hand at solo or Wicked Grace still wasn’t the same as the real thing. Except that wasn’t why she was here, sleeping at some crazed Tevinter Magister’s former home-away-from-home. She was there because her friend needed someone to _be_ there. And because she herself had found some comfort in being the ‘steady’ one for once. Fenris wasn’t interested in her masks, but he didn’t question them either, or when she showed other sides. It wasn’t that they sat around talking, mostly it was just quiet but for the sound of the other one breathing and the snap of the fire he always seemed to have lit, the bustle of Kirkwall oddly muted and distant. 

Why did she have to get herself into these situations? People were so much bother. Friends were even worse. They wanted and expected and took things and left her frustrated. Then again she only had herself to blame, it was her idea to start keeping Fenris company - no one else would. But if there was one thing she was a sucker for, it was someone afraid. It was why she had freed those refugees, Castillion be damned. There were just some things not even she could handle. Running fingers through pale hair to stir the snapping and crackling up, Isabela restrained the uncharacteristic sigh.

“Mmmn,” sleepy and once more awake just enough to rub his face into her chest, typical male, it almost made her smile. 

“Going to start complaining already?” 

“No,” another rubbing and burrowing closer. “But I’m not an animal.”

Pausing, Isabela frowned at the ceiling, “What makes you think I’m treating you like an animal?”

“You’re petting me.”

“You drool in your sleep.”

“You snore.”

Unable to halt the offended squawk, “I do not!”

“It’s soft, but you do.”

“Take that back! No woman wants to _ever_ be told she snores!” 

“I see no reason to hide it from you,” Fenris rolled his head to the side to look at her. “No one else is likely to hear it. Merrill might if she stopped listening to the voices in her head.”

Pushing his head back into her chest, “Must be some super elven hearing thing then. But Zev never complained. Then again...not much sleep to be had when he’s around.”

“Hmph.”

XXX

The next night Isabela almost didn’t waltz over to Fenris’ squat, vaguely put out that she had had such a stupid imperfection pointed out to her. In fact she managed to last until the Hanged Man got extremely rowdy and she had won several games of Wicked Grace, caused at least two fools to fall at her feet, bleeding and limping away, and consume enough alcohol to be quite dizzy. But when the drunken come-ons got pushy, Isabela decided to call it a night, stumbling to her room to crash. Except she couldn’t sleep and the Hanged Man was just too damned loud. Grabbing a pillow she covered her head, whimpering with aggravation and annoyance knowing what she was about to do was probably supremely stupid. 

Not that some little detail like that had ever stopped her before.

XXX

“You’re drunk,” Fenris’ arms were crossed with disapproval.

“I’m not drunk, I’m tipsy,” Isabela pushed past him. “Besides - you get drunk how often? I’m a big girl Fenris.”

“I don’t walk across Kirkwall drunk, singing songs and giggling and throwing rocks at windows,” it was dry and still very disapproving, making Isabela regret having made the trek.

She wanted quiet - not a lecture. 

Unlacing her corselet then prying the heavy gorget from around her neck, Isabela scowled at Fenris, matching his expression. “Not my fault the Hanged Man’s crowded.”

“It’s your choice to stay there,” he shrugged, still standing, staring down at her. “No one’s forcing you to live there.”

“No one’s forcing you to live here either,” almost snapping at him. 

“I didn’t ask you to come here, Isabela, that was your choice,” weight shifted before he began pacing, long strides rapidly carrying him back and forth. “You come because you can. I could tell you that you can’t.”

“Fine.” Isabela didn’t know what he was so angry about, but he was _always_ angry, always snapping at people. 

Always scared. 

That last reminder brought her up short in her drunken haze, making her hand stop in its grab for her bits of armour. Why was he scared now? Blinking owlishly, Isabela went over what had changed. Went over the progression since Varania’s death. She was missing something and she never missed anything. Except the _Siren_ and being on the open water. Or the smell of Fenris’ hair. But that was different. Sighing, she lay down, not coordinated enough to mess with her boots. Fenris was right in that at least - she really was drunk. 

XXX

Her head hurt - either something had brained her good or she had had too much of Corff’s swill. Probably the latter. Swallowing her groan, Isabela began to roll over, but there were arms around her, holding her in place, the spinning and rocking of the room and sharp smell of a storm, made her moan anyway. Behind her there was movement, the arms lifting her slowly and holding her at an angle, as though ready for her to be sick.

Growling at whoever was that stupid, Isabela pushed, “Lemme go. I’m fine.”

“I’d rather you not choke,” the arms not relinquishing their hold.

“Dammit Fenris, I’m not going to bloody choke,” once more seeking to dislodge the arms enough to either sit up on her own or turn over to face him. “I’ve been shitfaced off my ass so many times...”

“Doesn’t matter, it only takes a single mistake or miscalculation, and then you’re either left regretting it or not alive to regret it,” more growling, face in her hair, she could tell because his breath puffed warm against her scalp. He had to have mooshed his head in to get that close - she had _a lot_ of hair. “I’d rather neither happen.”

Giving up, Isabela let herself go lax, “I’ve got plenty of things to regret and I just don’t bother. Giving you a kick in the pants is one of them.”

“You’ve never kicked me in the pants.”

“Yeah, that. I should. Regret that I haven’t. Maybe it would dislodge that stick you’ve got firmly in place or bust the laces that keep you bound up so bleeding tight.” Making scissors of her fingers and snipping the air, “See, I just cut through tight laced shit when it gets in my way. Your laces are in the way. Maybe then you’d just fuck me and maybe cheer up. Can’t stand that nothing makes you happy. That’s not right. Shitting on everyone’s day, even your friends’. Makes a girl wonder what the hell she has to do to help. Damn you, you’re a confusing little bugger, never any molehills, everything’s got to be mountains with you. Why? Why do you have to be such a prick and chase everybody away unless they sit down and shut up and don’t _do_ anything with you?”

“You’re not talking about sex,” it was a statement, just a double-check, confirmation of what they both knew he knew.

“No, I’m not talking about sex and you bloody well know it. Now put me down so I can be miserable on my own.”

When he didn’t release her after sinking back onto the pallet, Isabela began to protest again, but he silenced her, “You didn’t let me be miserable on my own. Fair’s fair. You get something, I get something.”

“Did killing your sister make you feel better?” asking as she gave in. “I know when I hired the Crows to deal with my fat, greasy pig of a husband and have him murdered, I didn’t feel much better. Free, sure. Still was bitter. Especially when I found out the man I had been seeing on the side, for a little care, was the Crow sent that I asked for. Weeks of fun and the last time I see him he’s running naked across the damned rooftops. Then my ass of a husband’s dead by morning. How fun is that? Bastard may have put hands on me for five years every day he was in port, may have deserved everything Zev gave him and then some, but it didn’t make me feel real good afterwards.”

At some point in the night her bandanna must have been taken off, because Fenris rubbed his nose at her temple and there was no rustle of blue fabric. “Is that your idea of a molehill?”

“No.”

“It is a bitter pill.” He sighed, “One I wish I had never swallowed.” Fenris was quiet for several minutes, “That’s why you came.”

“Yeah, it was. Sort of. You didn’t know Varania, didn’t remember her, no recognition, am I right? May as well have been a stranger, just a random elven mage, selling out their brethren,” eyes closed Isabela leaned her head back so it was closer to his face. “Bothered you, didn’t it? Either scenario - that you killed your sister, or killed a stranger. Hadriana was easier I bet. But you know what? You’re not the only one who’s done stupid things like that. You can’t let it control you - otherwise you may as well walk back to Tevinter and hand yourself over to Danarius, because he’ll still be holding your leash.” 

Fenris tensed, fighting the upwelling of anger, she could feel it, feel it through their clothes, and the few places his lyrium infused flesh touched hers. “That’s not a molehill.”

“No, it isn’t. But every day you keep being angry at _everyone_ for every little thing, then you’re still their slave. It took me _ages_ to not attack any man who grabbed me wrong, stood wrong, spoke wrong. Not until I realized that Horatio still had his hands about my neck, even though he was dead and crow bait - literally - every time that happened. Make that mountain into a molehill,” releasing a fairly unladylike burp - not that she gave a damn with the way her head was pounding - Isabela rubbed at her eye-sockets, trying to smear away the pain. “Otherwise they win. I’m your friend, I don’t want that to happen to you. And maybe if you loosen up a little you’ll quit doing that angry grimacing thing at me - I can practically taste your disapproval for my drunkenness, but this damned hangover is punishment enough, thanks.”

“You could have gotten hurt coming all the way from the Hanged Man in that state,” cut glass that didn’t hurt no matter how sharp that accent was, even through the headache. “You’re my friend and I don’t want that to happen to you.”

The parroted and slightly changed words didn’t annoy even with her shortened temper. “Okay, can we go back to sleep now? Don’t you dare tell me I snore.”

An amused snort, “You do? I hadn’t noticed.”

Squeezing the forearm still wrapped tightly around her middle, “Liar. Bad one too. You’d lose at Wicked Grace so fast...”

“Go back to sleep, Isabela.” She couldn’t be certain but she thought she felt lips near where jaw and skull joined near her ear.

XXX

The Hanged Man was crowded. It was _always_ crowded. Except at the earliest hours of the day, or latest hours of the night, depending on point of view. Fenris stalked up the stairs behind her to her room, why he had insisted on coming along, she wasn’t entirely sure. She wasn’t hungover anymore, she was sober and in her right mind. Or as ‘right’ as it got. But he had tagged along and she supposed he felt the need for some people even if he didn’t interact with them directly. 

“Home, sweet home. Or not,” said as she let him in to the tiny room, packed with knickknacks, skrimshaw and whittled pieces scattered all over. A girl had to have hobbies if she wasn’t calling out orders or plotting sea charts. “Just need to change.”

She dug in her seatrunk, obviously not _her_ seatrunk, not the old one, the real one. That was long lost along with her crew and ship. Coming up with a clean pair of smalls and a fresh tunic, Isabela stripped, tossing the dirty and booze sweat stinking garments from the night before into a wash basket. She could do laundry later. Some other day. Or maybe just take it all over to Hawek’s estate and have the servants do it. As she was tugging the clean cotton on, Fenris’ hand stopped her, resting right over her kidney. A thumb traced the jagged weal for several minutes, examining the old wound. Anders had said that it was a wonder she had survived it, which was the same thing she had been told by all the healers before him who had taken a good look at it. Sometimes if she was struck wrong she would piss blood for days, something about how it had healed made the tissue put pressure on the sensitive organ and she had been told - repeatedly - that there wasn’t anything to do for it other than to heal any fresh damage as it happened. 

It was strange how the tingle from Fenris’ skin vibrated through the scar and into her body, as though their old wounds recognized each other. Almost comforting in its oddity. Closing her eyes, Isabela waited as Fenris’ palm slid over her side to her hip, turning her. There were other scars, none so bad, mostly more recent, only one or two of any real age remained. 

The touch withdrew and she finished getting dressed, “Done?”

“You are a very lucky woman,” was all he said, sitting on the edge of her bed. “I do have fresh water, you could do your laundry there.”

Glancing up from folding a clean set of clothes, Isabela measured Fenris the best she could. He wasn’t looking at her, which wasn’t unusual, his eyes skipping over the handful of books she owned, mostly geographies and star charts, and the carvings she did to keep her hands busy. Shrugging away any questions or protests she could come up with, she stuffed the pile of dirty clothes in the satchel she had brought back from the old mansion. That was the slow start of her moving in.

XXX

Even though there were bedrooms on either side of the mansion, they continued to sleep on the floor in front of the fireplace. Each day another trip to the Hanged Man would be followed by another, very reasonable sounding, offer or fact pointed out to her by Fenris. She was curious to know if he even realized what he was doing. Or what she was doing. Isabela hadn’t lived _with_ a man, or at least under his roof, in years. Nor had she wanted to. It was never worth it. As summer came in full and it got too hot to sleep with a fire lit, they finally resorted to the cellar, dragging down the pallet and the mattress from his bed. That way it was cool enough that they didn’t mind continuing their sleeping arrangement that usually wound up with someone’s hand or face - usually both - somewhere on the other person’s body. 

None of their companions said anything. Isabela wasn’t even sure they noticed. Just, one day she could still be found at the Hanged Man, then the next it was no longer the truth. That was before they moved down to the cellar, which was damp and blessedly cool when it would be far too warm for so far south. If she had been in Rivain or Antiva or even up near Hercenia, her body would have adjusted. But no, she was in Kirkwall which couldn’t decide what it was going to be some years it seemed like. 

“You’re fidgeting,” came the not quite grumble as a face rubbed into the back of her neck, arm tightening around her waist and the hand cupping a breast squeezed.

“Shit, you have to have the willpower of a saint,” resisting the temptation of moving his hand a little lower.

There was a puzzled grunt, “What?” A soft scrape from a dragged nose and deeper inhale, “Mmn.”

Isabela couldn’t even _remember_ the last time she had sex. Probably meant it wasn’t all that good. Even so, she was getting mighty tired of her hand when taking a bath. And Fenris had begun a new habit in his sleep - he said she snored, but at least she didn’t dry hump him. However even that was beginning to look tempting indeed.

“Fenris, you’re making me very...” Growling, Isabela started over. “It’s been forever and that is a very prominent erection against my backside and unless you’re going to move those hands to where I need them, I’m going to take matters into my own hands. Whether you’re present or not.”

Isabela found herself wondering if he did it on purpose. It would almost make sense. Almost. Actually anything would be believable at that point, from being a virgin to having no sex drive - the erections, boob grabbing, and dry humping notwithstanding - to being absolutely, despicably evil. Or just having a very twisted sense of humour. The only thing Isabela _couldn’t_ conceive of was Fenris not _getting it._ Which he apparently wasn’t. Either he had been dropped on his head too many times as a child, which while a horrible thought was also humorous in her current state, or the most likely, and in many ways most disturbing - he didn’t give a damn.

There was one of those things he had gotten in the habit of doing - kissing the nape of her neck. Was he taunting her or just not awake enough? Isabela thought Fenris was the most infuriating man in that moment, and many others truth be told, and she didn’t understand why she herself was frozen. It was impossibly out of character for her. Then again there was that brief meeting with Zevran when out with Hawke and Fenris and even her fellow rogue had turned her down. The Crow had said something about his Warden not being there and that had been the end of that. It had been one of her few chances to get at least _something_ that involved another person. And that night in camp Fenris had curled around her particularly tight, almost possessively. That action had almost caused her to shove the elf aside - she didn’t mind games, but no man put a stamp on her as a possession. Not anymore.

Sighing, “Fenris, I know everyone thinks I’ve got sex on the brain constantly, but if anyone ever knew that I’ve slept beside you for how long? And that we haven’t done the deed at least once...

“Four months. Give or take a night,” he was clearly enjoying the smell of her just a little too much, at least too much for her sanity and to be expected to not just roll over and pounce on him. “Since when do you care what others think?” 

Making a face he couldn’t see, “Never mind. That’s not the point.”

The sharp line of jaw hooked over her shoulder, textured palm sliding along the gap in tunic at her hip, “Then get _to_ the point, Isabela.”

Isabela nearly whimpered, no one could be _this_ daft. “You, me, bed.”

“We’re _in_ bed.”

There was no excuse for it - she was turning into Fenris. She had found out the secret of how he managed to be angry all the time: sexual frustration and denial. That had to be it. All those other reasons were just a big cover up for other people. 

Growling, “Fine - you put your cock in my cunt and we move around some and we get it over with.”

Fenris tensed apparently waking up fully, “What?”

Explaining as patiently as she could, “My right forearm is becoming annoyingly strong and yet my fingers keep cramping. I need penis. Or fingers not my own. Or a mouth. I have several orifices to make use of. I’d like them to be utilized at some point within the next ten seconds but at this pace it might be the next century.”

“Sex - that’s what you mean, you want sex with me.”

Isabela came close to howling. “Is there some other person here I’m talking to?”

“Not that I know of,” as he settled back down.

“Well?” prompting him in a likely futile attempt.

“Well what?”

“So...are we going to have sex?” she managed to refrain from adding the ‘finally’ to the question.

“Is it that important?” curiosity open in his tone.

Rolling over Isabela stared. “Okay, let me get this straight - we share a bed and general living quarters.”

Black brow beneath snow white hair quirked, “Yes.”

“You growl every time anyone male or female flirts with me and it isn’t one of those nice growls of just protesting a little bit. It’s one of those growls that - “ which was demonstrated right then and there, threatening loss of limb at the idea of anyone touching her. Poking him in the shoulder, “Yes, that one. And you’re a walking erection.”

“It goes down eventually,” the growl quieted as he shrugged.

“Ohhhkaaay - which one of us has boobs? Because usually it’s the women I’ve found who’re all recalcitrant on this not the men.” 

At the mention of her breasts his gaze automatically slid down as though checking. Or just enjoying the view. “You.”

“Right. So. Sex?”

“Right now?”

Gritting her teeth and holding back the snarl, “Preferably.”

“Are you certain, Isabela?”

They were going to hem and haw for another twenty minutes if she didn’t do something. So she did. His mouth tasted of sleep and crackled with static electricity but as soon as her tongue slid between his lips Fenris was returning the kiss with equal fervor, his arms drawing her tighter to him. 

Slipping a hand over the length of the hardness that pressed to her hip through his trews, “Fenris - pants off.” Lids hooded, she kissed him again, “ _Please._ ”

It was frenzied, there wasn’t anything else it could be at that moment. The tunic she slept in was yanked away from her body, the vest he wore almost tore with the force of removing it, Fenris’ trews shoved down far enough to give them both access to what apparently he had been holding back on. Later she could think about why, but it wasn’t later, it was now, and he was touching her, fingers testing her channel, the vibration of his groan at finding her long since aroused and wet thrumming against her throat. Wrapping her thighs around his lean hips, pulling him into her body, Isabela grabbed his hand, sucking his fingers clean, tasting her own sea-salt with his storm winds. Just behind her pelvic bone the frustration exploded, spreading outwards after their touches released it, Isabela arched as Fenris followed quickly.

The second bout took much longer, it was meant for exploration once the initial pent-up madness that had been building finally relinquished its hold on them both. 

Asking as she licked one of the raised edges on his throat, “Does it burn when I - ?” 

“Yes.” The reassurance was there, his fingers tugging at her scalp, pulling her mouth to his. “But it doesn’t hurt.” 

Slinging a leg over his, Isabela scooted down Fenris’ body, the permission having been given to sate her curiosity. She had always liked well adorned skin, but that was usually done with choice in mind other than the occasional slave brand or tattoo. Still, the lyrium scars were beautiful and followed each line of muscle and tendon, framing his form perfectly. Listening for any discomfort, she canvased him head to toe, letting him roll her over at the midway to reciprocate the exploring, until neither could take it again and bodies fitting together tightly to bring ecstasy to the foreground of nerves.

Pleasantly sore, time wasn’t easy to tell down in the cellar, but enough time had gone by that she was hungry and they had had quite a few good showings between each other. Isabela yawned, arms looped around Fenris, ready for a nap. Food could wait.

“Now that wasn’t so bad, now was it?” and she gave his ass a quick squeeze.

“Hmph, it was good. No - that’s insufficient. It was...more than I had dared to dream of,” his voice muffled from the vicinity of her breasts. 

Tugging at his hair, making Fenris look at her, “Then why the blazes did we wait so damn long?”

“You said it would be nice to have someone watch your back rather than your backside,” his gaze breaking away from her. “I wasn’t going to be another to _treat_ you the same as you had been.”

It took several long minutes to process what he just said. Isabela wasn’t going to say she understood it much but she was willing to try. As she drifted off she wondered if that was the sort of thing that made people settle down and if it was scary or not. She could figure that out later, amongst other things, but for now she was content to keep pace to the dancing steps fate had thrown at her.


End file.
